


Pledging Fealty

by stellardarlings



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Dark Rey (Star Wars), F/M, Good old fashioned plot what plot?, Kylo feasts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:14:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22500805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stellardarlings/pseuds/stellardarlings
Summary: Empress Rey waits on her throne for her consort's return.“I promised you that you’d never have to kneel before anybody ever again,” she reminds him.“You said I’d never have to kneel before another master,” he corrects.
Relationships: Kylo Ren/Rey, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 28
Kudos: 177





	Pledging Fealty

**Author's Note:**

> This was meant to be much shorter and much smuttier but a) I always end up writing more than I expected and b) I'm apparently not very good at writing straightforward porn and it ends up like this.
> 
> Not beta read.

Sometimes the days are endless. Power begets tedium—an endless procession of petitioners, countless petty matters to be dealt with, generals and clerks needing their empress’ approval for the slightest of decisions.

It’s not how Rey thought she would wield power before she took it. Back when she’d been nothing, she’d had no concept of what being _everything_ might look like. It certainly hadn’t involved this many hours on a throne, with only the configuration of the stars beyond the throne room windows changing as she navigated the levers of complete control over the galaxy. She leaves plenty of work to her acolytes, every last person on this ship rigorously tested for their loyalty towards her and her vision for this glorious new empire, but they rely on her all the same. It’s draining.

And lonely. So lonely, some days.

Today has been one of those days, but she knows it’s going to improve. Imminently. She can feel it, a presence at the edge of her consciousness, a warm glow that crackles and spits energy the closer it gets to her.

All of this is for _him_. Killing those who harmed him, taking the power so he wouldn’t be destroyed by wielding it. Despite the days that drag on and all the things that weigh on her soul, she wouldn’t change what she’s done.

He’s here, a shadow in the entrance to the throne room, his cloak billowing behind him as he stomps across the floor. There’s not a shred of elegance to him as he moves—Kylo was built for brawn, shaped into a weapon too young. When she’s been in his head, she’s felt his unease at his own body, at how he’s always felt like he’s _too much_. He’s never seen himself move with a saber in his hand. He’ll never understand how much Rey appreciates his might and his potency. Every inch of him.

He’ll never understand how her days are dull and cold when he is away from her.

“Leave us,” she commands the gathered underlings. They scatter without question, the doors of the throne room closing behind them, leaving their empress and her consort alone.

She takes him in, drinking in his presence with her eyes and through the bond between them. He radiates heat, his life-force the same restless, ever-shifting electricity as his blade, and it sets her nerves alight. She feels like she is overbrimming with life whenever she is close to him, the sensation bringing a smile to her face for the first time in days.

His face is as pale as ever, untouched by sunlight. He hides it from the world outside these walls beneath his mask. His stare is intense—she’s not sure he knows how to look at her in any other way than like this, baring his soul to her through his eyes. Eager to please, desperate for her affection as he approaches the throne.

To him, she is life too, but in a completely different way: she is the calming, soothing lapping of water against his wounds. They shouldn’t mix, but they do, feeding each other. Sustaining and combining into something which is more than the sum of their parts.

“My most faithful subject,” she says in greeting. He’s faithful in so many ways, beyond mere loyalty. They’re bound to each other and share one vision, one path. Each other’s first and last and only. “Is it done?”

He nods, dropping his gaze and lowering himself to his knees at her feet. There’s a cushion there, one nobody else is permitted to use, but she’ll take care of him however she can. He insists on taking these missions away for _her_ protection, because this is another thing he doesn’t understand: nothing in this galaxy will ever hurt her or tear her away from him. It’s her place to protect him, to nurture him and be everything he never had.

“It’s done,” he confirms, his voice hushed in reverence.

His hair is in disarray, longer than it’s ever been. She likes it this way; it reminds her of all the times she has made a tangle of it with her fingers. She takes his face between her hands, tipping his chin up towards her and relishing the delighted thrum of their bond at the contact. Even kneeling before the throne, Kylo’s size means his face would be level with hers if he wasn’t slouching, trying to fully prostrate himself. She won’t have it. His dark eyes shine as he gazes up at her, worlds of emotion overflowing behind them. Adoration. Devotion. Awe.

“I promised you that you’d never have to kneel before anybody ever again,” she reminds him.

“You said I’d never have to kneel before another master,” he corrects. His lips tug upwards into the slightest of smiles, though he’s no less intense for the moment of levity. “You are not my master.”

He’s right. They are equals, even if he refuses to share the throne with her, even if he refuses to take his place beside her. Though she knows that isn’t what he means when he says she’s not his master—he’s been far too eager to whisper other titles to her before. Mistress, majesty, empress. She’s his equal, not his master, but he elevates her anyway.

“Have you come to pledge your fealty to me?” she teases back.

A flicker of desire pulses through the bond—his feeding hers. He licks his lips, tucking the lower one in and catching it with his teeth. It’s an unplanned movement but one she watches greedily. His mouth is perfect, that lower lip made for kissing her, for being bitten, for trembling as she pushes him to his limits when they are in bed together. It’s so red against the pallor of his face, forever looking like he’s been freshly kissed.

“Always.” His voice is low and rough.

There’s a flame behind his eyes and she catches light inside. He’s only been gone a few days but she’s ached for him—for his presence, for his touch, for that plush, pouty mouth.

“Well then.”

She lets go of his face, settling back into her throne and spreading her legs so they rest on either side of his torso, covered by the gauzy expanse of her skirts.

He needs no encouragement, shifting to take each of her ankles in his gloved hands, pushing her legs further apart so he can get the entire breadth of his shoulders between them. She makes an impatient noise, gesturing for the gloves to come off. Sometimes they stay on, but not today, not when they’ve been apart and she needs no barriers between them. He takes the tip of one finger between his teeth, biting carefully down on the leather to peel it away, keeping eye contact with her as his skin is exposed. Pale as his face, those long fingers with all the strength contained with them.

She grabs the glove away from him, tossing it aside while he removes the other and takes her ankles once more. Skin against skin, satisfaction humming to life as they’re connected. His grip is firm, but his lips are gentle, moving to brush over her ankle bone, her foot flexing at the sensation.

He makes a path from ankle to knee with his mouth: kisses and nibbles, the soft scrape of his teeth soothed by a sweep of his tongue. She’s impatient, yanking her skirts higher so she can follow his progress. He’d happily bury his head undercover, but she needs to see him, and to be able to grip his hair. She needs to watch his greedy mouth as it works. For now her hands curl into the silk of her robe and tighten into fists.

He’s reached her thighs and switches sides, nuzzling into the flesh with a sharp bite and remedying tongue. Rey hears him inhale, breathing in her scent, unimpeded by the underwear she never dons. If she could rub her thighs together, she’d be slick and ready for him. But even if his shoulders weren’t keeping her spread open, the way his hands loop around the meat of her thighs to grip her, to keep her exactly where she is, puts her entirely at his mercy now.

As she likes it.

He could easily bruise her, or worse, and part of what makes her pulse race around him is the way he keeps all of that easy strength in check. He treats her like she is something precious, which is ridiculous, because she hasn’t found anything in this galaxy that’s as precious as his soul.

His mouth is finally level with the juncture of her thighs and he’s so, so focused on his goal. It’s an intensity that takes her breath away. His nose is the first thing to make contact—another feature she knows he dislikes about himself, but one she adores. It’s made for this, the way it nudges at her, parting her before his mouth finds its way to her flesh.

Yes. He kisses her here like he kisses her mouth, devouring, long strokes of his tongue intertwined with the pressure of his lips, his jaw working furiously. The sounds he’s making are obscene—a greedy, wet smacking with the undertone of his deep, bass moans.

She moans too, letting her hands dig their way into his hair. She brings his gaze to hers with the gentlest of tugs, letting him witness what he does to her. The fire he’s stoking inside her as she watches his mouth move, the vision of him nestled between her thighs and feasting like a starving man leaving her restless, rocking against him.

There are things she wants to say to him. About what he means to her. About what he does to her. About how his place isn’t on his knees in front of her, but that would be a lie, because they both know nothing is more right in the galaxy than him between her thighs like this. Pledging his fealty, as if she doesn’t know how what he feels goes beyond duty and faith. Later she’ll ride him on this throne, giving back everything he’s given to her, even if he refuses to stay on the throne when he isn’t inside her.

She doesn’t say anything, because how can she speak, how can she find coherent words when he’s driving her to the brink?

Words are for another time, when her toes aren’t curling and her breath isn’t hitching this way. When her entire world isn’t constricting down to the place where her lover is gorging on her, every star in the galaxy ready to go supernova in her blood at the way he’s touching her. Words are for the quiet hours when they are truly equal, tangled together in their bed. For all the things he refuses to take from her, and for all that he gives her.

Including this. This moment of shattering, stuttering ecstasy as he coaxes the purest of responses from her, the bond between them singing its own rapture. Time after time he will pledge himself to her this way. Nothing pleases them more.


End file.
